SCYTHE    AND   SWORD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SCYTHE  AND  SWORD 


POEMS 


BY 

O     C     AURINGER 


BOSTON 
D     LOTHROP     COMPANY 

FRANKLIN  AND  HAWLEY  STREETS 
1887 


COPYRIGHT,  1887,  BY 
D.    LOTHROP   COMPANY. 


PRESS    OF   HENRY    H.    CLARK    4    CO.,    BOSTON 


PS 


TO 

EDWARD    EGGLESTON,    D.D., 

W 'ARM  FRIEND 
AND    WISE    COUNSELLOR, 

THESE   POEMS   ARE  AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 

BY 
THE   AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  ORCHARD i 

A  WIND  SONG 7 

THE  VALE  OF  SPIRITS 9 

THE  OLD  BALSAM 10 

ONE  OF  NATURE'S  SURPRISES 15 

RAIN  SONG  FOR  OCTOBER 17 

AFTER  THE  HARVEST 19 

THE  FIRST  PHEBE 21 

CRICKET  SONG 24 

To  A  SUMMER  EVENING  WIND 25 

FADING  DAYS 29 

GLEN  LAKE  AT  TWILIGHT   .        .               .       .       .  30 

THE  ROBE-WEAVERS 33 

WINTER 35 

THE  VOICE  OF  WATERS 36 

THE  UNTIMELY  SINGER       ......  38 

SONG'S  DIVINITY 39 

THE  VOYAGERS 41 

PRESAGE 45 

INLAND 48 

STARLIGHT  SONG       ........  49 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  COMING  PREACHER 50 

GOD'S  COUNTRY 53 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  WAR-EAGLE       ....  55 

THE  PARTING  OF  EMERSON 56 

GORDON 57 

EMERSON  —  CARLYLE         .......  j8 

CHARLES  DARWIN 59 

PRESBYTERY .  61 

SONG-SEEDS 62 

CONFESSION 64 

THE  POET'S  HERITAGE 65 

THOUGHT  AND  PASSION .66 

A  SONG  ON  THE  SHORE 67 

WHIPPOORWILL 68 

HELLAS 71 

A  TROPICAL  SHOWER 72 

SUMMER  GODS 73 

THE  NEW  KINGDOM 77 

A  DAY  AND  A  FRIEND 78 

PHAON  AND  HYALS 79 

THE  SLAYER  .                       81 


SCYTHE  AND   SWORD. 


THE    ORCHARD. 
I. 

THE  orchard  stretches  from  the  door, 
To  right  and  left  and  far  along, 

To  where  the  gray  fence  winds  before 
The  slope  where  meadow  grasses  throng. 

The  trunks,  like  graven  columns  old, 
Rise  from  the  tight  turf  all  arow, 

And  breaking  into  arms  uphold 
A  roof  of  emerald  and  snow. 

Its  breezy  floor  with  gold  is  strown, 
As  thick  as  stars  on  cloudless  night, 

Where  flower-enamored  Spring  has  sown 
Her  dandelions  for  delight. 


SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


Adown  the  long  aisles  careless  pass 
The  wavering  butterflies  of  May, 

And  on  the  spreading  mat  of  grass 
In  troops  the  fitful  shadows  play. 


II. 

Midway  along  the  deep  arcade 
The  monarch  of  the  orchard  stands, 

For  fifty  years  through  light  and  shade 
The  glory  of  the  homestead  lands. 

His  massive  trunk  is  straight  and  free, 
His  great  arms  of  heroic  brawn 

Are  spread  abroad  in  majesty 
O'er  many  a  rood  of  level  lawn. 

His  leaf  is  greenest  emerald, 

His  bloom  is  mottled  blood  and  snow, 
His  fruit  is  mellow  globes  of  gold, 

With  summer's  choicest  wines  aglow. 

The  tufted  sod  about  his  feet 
At  morn  is  longest  wet  with  dew, 


THE  ORCHARD.  3 

So  close  the  leafy  branches  meet, 

So  rare  the  rifts  the  sun  shines  through. 

Above  his  old  root  swells  a  mound, 

A  royal  pillow  for  the  head 
Of  one  who  on  the  fragrant  ground 

Would  lie  and  dream  as  on  a  bed. 

T  is  here  at  noon's  celestial  hour, 

When  not  with  spirit  weighed  and  worn, 

But  fresh  and  open  as  a  flower, 

Through  which  all  wandering  airs  are  borne, 

I  come.     Beneath  the  rustling  tide 

Of  leaves  I  lie  upon  the  grass, 
While  winds  of  heaven  from  far  and  wide 

Blow  me  a  greeting  as  they  pass. 

The  farmer  sun,  whose  harvest  face 
The  cloud  of  foliage  shuts  from  view, 

Finds  here  and  there  unguarded  space 
To  shoot  a  shining  message  through. 

I  feel  the  swift  pulse  of  delight 

That  thrills  the  wild  bird  on  the  wing ; 


SCYTHE   AND  SWORD. 

My  spirit,  in  the  joys  of  flight, 
Joins  his  exultant  caroling. 


That  wandering  flower  of  groves  and  fields, 
The  butterfly,  luxurious  guest, 

To  me  his  dainty  secret  yields ; 
I  join  him  in  his  foolish  quest. 

The  pleasure-hunting  bumblebee, 
Sipping  from  clover-cups  his  wine, 

I  apprehend,  —  I  am  as  he, 

And  all  his  honeyed  thoughts  are  mine. 

Ah !  sweet  wild  friends  of  summer-time, 

By  kindly  love  familiar  made, 
That  in  the  day's  delicious  prime 

Throng  round  me,  and  are  not  afraid ! 


III. 

Then  hovering  round  me,  lo  !  I  hear 
Seraphic  voices,  tongue  on  tongue, 

In  airy  syllables  as  clear 

As  e'er  through  brain  of  poet  rung. 


THE   ORCHARD. 

Swift  fade  the  fields,  the  birds  grow  mute, 
The  winds  fall  faint  and  die  away, 

Soft  sounds,  as  of  a  lyre  or  lute, 
With  voices,  o'er  my  spirit  stray. 

They  speak  to  me  sublimer  things 
Than  seer  or  master  ever  taught, 

Or  mind  has  gleaned  in  wanderings 
Through  all  the  universe  of  thought. 

The  treasures  of  the  secret  place 
The  passive  soul  may  freely  share, 

While  he  that  runs  with  ardent  pace 
Comes  baffled  back,  and  in  despair. 

So  in  a  trance  I  lie  and  hear 

That  hidden  stream  in  music  flow, 

Whose  happy  current,  still  and  clear, 
Sweeps  brightly  round  our  walls  of  woe. 

I  rise  as  one  by  magic  birth 

'Mong  new-created  things  set  free, 

To  look  upon  a  wondrous  earth 
'Neath  skies  of  stainless  purity. 


SCYTHE   AND  SWORD. 

It  lies  in  floods  of  heaven  immersed : 
Gone  is  the  curse,  the  sin,  the  stain ; 

And  glorious,  as  at  the  first, 

Man  walks  in  joy  with  God  again. 


A   WIND  SONG. 


A    WIND    SONG. 

BLOW,  freely  blow, 

Over  the  snow,  O  wind ! 
As  merrily  blow  o'er  the  hills  of  snow 

As  if  never  a  man  had  sinned, 
As  if  never  a  woman  had  wept, 

Or  a  delicate  child  grown  pale, 
Or  a  maiden's  warm  tears  crept 

To  hallow  a  faithless  tale ! 

Blow,  stoutly  blow, 

Strong  in  thy  heathen  joy ! 
Sorrow  thou  surely  canst  not  know, 

For  thine  is  the  heart  of  a  boy ! 
For  thine  is  the  freedom  and  strength 

Of  a  rover  careless  and  gay, 
Over  the  fair  land's  length 

Joyfully  wandering  away ! 

Blow,  bravely  blow, 

Out  of  the  fields  of  air ! 
Till  we  see  thy  garments'  airy  flow, 

And  the  gleam  of  thy  flying  hair  ; 


SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

Till  the  light  of  thy  broad  bright  wing 
And  thy  glad  eyes  set  us  free, 

And  we  feel  in  our  hearts  the  spring 
Of  a  joy  that  was  wont  to  be ! 


THE  VAIvE  OF  SPIRITS. 


THE    VALE    OF    SPIRITS. 

IN  deep  green  woods  there  lies  a  fairy  glade 
Shut  in  by  tawny  hemlocks  wild  and  tall ; 
Its  floor  is  laid  with  richest  moss,  and  all 

Its  round  is  steeped  in  most  delicious  shade. 

It  is  a  spot  for  listening  silence  made ; 

Few  sounds  awake  it,  save  the  wild-bird's  call, 
And  winds  that  murmur  round  its  forest  wall, 

Like  instruments  at  airy  distance  played. 

'Tis  there  a  still  and  stolen  guest  I  lie, 

And  listen  to  the  weird  wood-spirits  singing ; 

I  hear  their  bell-like  voices  floating  nigh, 

From  arches  green  and  dewy  dingles  springing ; 

They  pass  in  elfin  song  and  laughter  by, 

I  hear  their  clear  ha !  ha !  in  deep  dells  ringing. 


IO  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


THE    OLD    BALSAM. 

YEAR  in,  year  out,  unchanged  thou  standest  there, 

And  broodest  in  a  visionary  wise  ; 
Inscrutably  the  same  in  seasons  rare 

As  'midst  the  winter's  straits  and  stormy  cries. 

Solemn  and  vast,  and  hard  in  reticence, 

That  speaks  not  save  in  unremembered  tongue, 

Thou  standest  an  enigma  and  offence, 

Steadfast   and   old  'midst   all   that 's   frail   and 
young. 

Looking  on  noble  mountains  from  thy  place, 
And  on  still  waters  stayed  in  linked  hills,  — 

A  landscape  with  a  chance  capricious  face, 

Now  charmed  with  smiles,  now  vexed  with  winter 
ills. 

Alternate  barrenness,  bloom,  snow,  and  flowers, 
Web  sunbeam  and  frost  crystal,  now  and  then ; 

All  things  in  turn,  and  flowing  like  the  hours, 
And  neighbored  by  the  near  abodes  of  men. 


THE  OLD   BALSAM.  II 

'Midst  these,  and  under  skies  as  fair  as  joy, 
Or  hard  as  hate,  and  drawn  in  fierce  distress, 

Thou  keep'st  the  calm  that  nothing  can  annoy, 
The  mark  —  the  state  no  chance  can  dispossess. 

For  why  ?  what  art  thou,  and  from  whence,  that  so 
Thou  lettest  pass  the  ineffectual  world, 

Scornful  of  its  vext  strivings  to  and  fro,  — 

Sea  without  port,  whose  sails  are  nowhere  furled  ? 

What  art  thou,  with  such  matchless  hardihood, 
That  keep'st  thy  spirit  while  the  fiery  sway 

Of  change  unsettles  e'en  the  brave  and  good, 
And  leaves  not  one,  but  whirls  them  all  away  ? 

Art  thou  a  prophet,  like  of  old,  with  feet 
Set  steadfast  on  the  ancient  base  of  things, 

With  mighty  heart  of  uncorrupted  heat, 

Whose  thoughts  are  strong,  fierce  angels  clad  with 
wings  ? 

A  living  sign  whereon  the  world  shall  gaze, 

And  be  reproved  for  its  inconstancy, 
Confronting  all  its  feeble  pride  of  days 

With  the  calm  purpose  of  eternity  ? 


12  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

I  think  thou  art  a  prophet ;  yet  thou  hast 
At  sudden  times  a  glow  of  milder  grace, 

That  mellows  o'er  that  mood,  —  that  iron  cast 
Of  thought,  which  marks  thee  of  prophetic  race, 

Like  moonlight  over  armor ;  and  at  night, 

Oft    when    sleep    drugs    the    vulgar   sense    with 
dreams, 

Thou  wear'st  a  look  of  rapture,  and  a  light 
Of  elfish  wildness  round  thy  figure  gleams. 

Sad,  yet  withal  not  lonely,  but  as  one, 
For  his  high  heart  exalted  like  a  star, 

Cut  off  from  kin,  and  understood  by  none, 
Thou  hast  thy  precious  visits  from  afar. 

Ere  fields  revive  their  green  at  Spring's  behest, 
Robin,  the  orator  from  out  the  south, 

From  the  precarious  vantage  of  thy  crest 

Pleads  loud  his  cause  with  eloquence  of  mouth. 

The  meteor  oriole,  of  golden  fame, 

After  all  woods  and  orchards  overflown, 

Cools  in  thy  ample  cloud  his  heart  of  flame, 
And  plies  the  art  so  wondrously  his  own. 


OLD   BAI<SAM.  13 

The  lady  bluebird,  quaint  and  delicate, 
And  yellowbird  the  fairy,  still  and  small, 

Have  known  thee  long  for  some  congenial  trait,  — 
Some  grace,  some  charm  familiar  over  all. 

In  the  black  midnight,  hark !  a  cry,  a  shout, 

As  of  a  night  sea  roaring  unto  sea ! 
The  lightning  and  the  storm  have  found  thee  out, 

Thy  giant  kindred  hold  converse  with  thee  ! 

For  these  thou  hast  a  voice  of  speech,  a  tongue 
Confessed,  or  couched  in  mystic  silences, 

That    ancient   speech    unchanged   since   time   was 

young  — 
Ah,  how  forgot  of  all  save  such  as  these ! 

Nay,  not  of  all ;  —  some  few  large  hearts  remain, 
Which  heed  the  noble  music  nature  makes, 

Which  rest  and  listen,  rise  and  toil  again, 
Strong  in  the  joy  its  melody  awakes. 

Some  sage,  some  prophet,  surely  thou  must  be, 
Since   these   esteem  thee   something   more  than 
friend ; 


14  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Yea,  mine  own  heart  hath  apprehended  thee, 
Henceforth  thou  art  my  brother  to  the  end ! 

A  soul  serene,  that  hath  its  dreams  apart ; 

A  mind  unmoved  by  blind  Ambition's  call ; 
A  noble,  calm  capacity  of  heart ; 

A  faithful  vision  glorifying  all. 

Of  strengths  like  these  the  present  world  hath  need, 
If  I,  who  question  thee,  have  learned  aright,  — 

To  give  to  time  men  of  heroic  breed, 
And  bring  the  old  sublimities  to  light. 

Ah,  well,  good  night,  brave  friend ;   kind  darkness 
keep 

This  image  of  thee  warm,  which  now  I  hold ; 
I  go  awhile  to  walk  the  paths  of  sleep, 

'Midst  frailer  forms  and  visions  manifold. 


ONE  OF  NATURE'S  SURPRISES.  15 


ONE    OF    NATURE'S    SURPRISES. 

FIRST  NOVEMBER. 

How  full  of  rare  surprises  nature  is  ! 

Not  often  —  with  the  sun  so  far  withdrawn 

To  southward  at  the  waning  of  the  year, 

Leaving  the  earth,  deserted  of  the  glow 

And  fire  and  passion  of  his  summer  love, 

To  bide  old  Winter's  cold,  ungenial  clasp  — 

Is  felt  so  sweet  and  pleasant  a  surprise 

As  met  me  on  a  country  road  to-day. 

Slowly  I  drove  along,  with  eye  alert, 

And  heart  intent  to  catch  the  faintest  gleam 

Of  glory  fading  from  the  autumn  hills,  — 

To  catch  the  last  pathetic  look  of  earth, 

So  full  of  sad  regret  for  glories  flown, 

And  vanished  with  the  joys  of  summer-time,  — 

Sweet  songs,  rich  feasts,  and  airs  of  paradise 

Upon  the  desolation  of  her  house  ;  — 

To  meet  her  farewell  look,  and  hear  the  sigh, 

Inaudible  to  all  but  charmed  ears, 

That  at  this  sad  and  desolate  time  of  year 

Arises  from  her  great  forsaken  heart, 


1 6  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Doomed,  as  she  knows,  soon  to  be  pierced  with 

frosts, 

And  frozen  into  stone  a  hundred  days. 
I  rode  along,  when,  lo !  beside  the  way, 
Beside  a  ruined  fence  patched  green  with  moss, 
And  sunken  down  in  dampness  and  decay ; 
'Midst  tangled  briars  long  blown  bare  of  leaves, 
And  dried  and  withered  by  the  autumn  winds ; 
On  frail,  precarious  stems,  shrunk  thin  as  thread  — 
Rare  raspberries !  as  large  and  red  and  round 
And  full  of  rich  suggestiveness  as  e'er 
The  roguish-hearted  Summer  scattered  free 
O'er  plots  unused,  and  nooks  beside  the  way, 
To  catch  the  hearts  of  merry  schoolward  elves, 
And  cheat  them  to  an  hour's  romp  and  glee. 
Ripe  raspberries  !  rare  gift,  this  time  of  year, 
From  even  Earth,  great  mother  rich  in  gifts ! 
With  heart  amid  regret  surprised  by  hope, 
I  stopped,  and  picked,  and  ate,  —  ate  joy  and  faith: 
Joy  at  such  miracle  by  nature  wrought, 
Faith  in  the  unfailing  richness  of  her  store. 


RAIN  SONG   FOR  OCTOBER.  17 


RAIN    SONG    FOR    OCTOBER. 

BEAT,  rain, 

Against  the  pane,  — 
O  beat  with  a  welcome,  soothing  sound ; 

Cool  and  sweet, 

After  the  heat, 
Welcome,  O  rain,  to  the  dry  and  thirsty  ground ! 

Sing,  rain, 

Amidst  the  grain,  — 
O  sing  to  the  grass  and  the  parching  sod ! 

Softly  sing, 

"  Rejoice  !  I  bring 
Refreshing  gifts  for  each  little  herb  of  God ! " 

Go,  drouth, 

Into  the  south,  — 
O  fly  to  the  desert,  where  no  man  is ! 

Go  and  stay 

Under  the  ray 
Of  the  red  fierce  sun  in  the  lifeless  wastes  of  his ! 


1 8  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

Praise,  rain, 

Our  God  again, 
O  praise  him  who  gave  thee  a  voice  to  praise  ! 

And  praise  him  we 

For  sending  thee 
To  give  us  hope  of  the  coming  fruitful  days ! 


AFTER   THE  HARVEST.  19 


AFTER    THE    HARVEST. 

THE  scythe  is  rusting  in  the  tree, 
The  rake  lies  broken  on  the  glade, 

The  mower  in  a  revery 

Is  stretched  at  ease  within  the  shade. 


A  goodly  man  the  mower  is, 

With  sinews  tough  as  twisted  rods, 

A  form  of  manly  grace  is  his, 
A  head  as  trenchant  as  a  god's. 

A  man  of  thought ;  the  harvest  o'er, 
Its  heats  and  triumphs  left  behind, 

He  rests,  and  gives  himself  once  more 
To  pleasures  of  the  heart  and  mind. 


Such  pleasures  !     All  the  glorious  skies, 
Their  happy  deeps,  their  hues,  their  forms 

That  float,  are  wonders  to  his  eyes ; 
He  glories  in  their  fires  and  storms. 


2O  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

The  sweet  green  earth  he  deems  most  fair ; 

He  knows  her  moods  of  ease  and  toil ; 
He  walks  abroad,  and  everywhere 

Sees  blessings  springing  from  the  soil. 

The  woods  and  pastures,  near  and  far, 
To  him  their  secrets  yield  ;  he  knows 

The  shy  spot  where  the  berries  are, 

The  corner  where  the  sweet  mint  grows. 

His  friendships  lie  on  every  hand, 
In  man  and  cattle,  bird  and  bee ; 

And  he  is  wise  to  understand 

The  language  of  the  flower  and  tree. 

The  free  air  and  the  light  he  quaffs 
Are  turned  to  sunshine  in  his  veins  ; 

His  speech  is  cheer,  and  when  he  laughs 
Great  nature's  joy  is  in  the  strains. 

For  him  the  cloud  shall  break  and  pass, 
And  show  behind  its  shattered  bars 

The  splendor  of  the  fields  and  grass, 
The  glory  of  the  sky  and  stars. 


THE   FIRST   PHEBE.  21 


THE    FIRST    PHEBE. 

SWEET  latest  herald  of  the  spring, 
Fresh  from  thy  rest  at  nature's  heart, 

Where  thou  dost  linger  listening 

Till  all  her  warm,  strong  pulses  start. 

Last  eve  I  heard  thy  fairy  note 
Along  the  orchard  arches  blown  ; 

Faint,  — faint  it  seemed,  and  far  remote, 
And  yet  I  knew  it  for  thine  own. 

Though  wild  the  robin  sang  above, 
And  bluebird  carolled  blithe  and  clear, 

Thy  low  voice,  like  the  word  of  love, 
Found  instant  pathway  to  mine  ear. 

And  in  my  breast  the  pulse  of  spring 
Beat  out  an  answering  throb  ;  I  knew 

'Midst  rivals'  noisier  carolling, 

The  one  fine  voice  of  prophet  true. 


22  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

And  thine,  alas !  a  prophet's  fate ; 

All  night  the  rains  have  fallen  on  thee  ; 
All  night  no  comfort,  —  no,  but  hate, 

Darkness  and  doubt  and  misery. 

Thou  comest  not  to  me  this  morn 
With  secrets  of  thy  earth  and  air, 

But  with  thy  poor  drowned  wings  forlorn, 
Thrice  weary  with  thy  heart's  despair ! 

Where  didst  thou  pass  thy  soul's  unrest 
Through  all  those  bitter  hours  and  wild  ? 

Behold  thy  soft  sky-woven  vest 
With  darkest  stains  of  earth  defiled ! 

O  welcome  to  my  porch  and  vine, 
Thy  singing-bower  in  other  days  ! 

Make  it  thy  house  wherein  to  pine, 
Which  once  thou  mad'st  thy  house  of  praise 

Ay,  welcome  to  my  heart,  dear  bird  ! 

Come  in,  come  in,  and  lodge  with  me : 
This  breast  with  greater  griefs  is  stirred 

Than  any  fate  can  bring  to  thee. 


THE   FIRST   PHEBE.  23 

I  '11  tell  thee  of  the  wearing  pain 

No  human  heart  may  share  or  know, — 

The  slow  worm  that  amidst  the  grain 
Robs  harvest  of  its  overflow. 


And  thus  with  kindly  sympathy 

We  '11  sun  these  lives  with  sorrows  sown, 
Lest  some  approaching  season  see 

Their  fields  with  bitter  weeds  o'ergrown. 

See  now  the  clouds  flow  back  !  the  sun 
Comes  through  the  orchard's  eastern  gate ; 

Adown  the  air  fleet  murmurs  run, 
That  break  in  song  and  soar  elate. 

The  scenes  that  coldly  viewed  thy  plight 
With  golden  lights  are  hallowed  now ; 

The  drops  that  beat  on  thee  all  night 
Are  chains  of  diamonds  on  the  bough. 


24  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


CRICKET    SONG. 

SING  to  me,  sing  to  me,  sad  and  low, 

Cricket  under  the  rafter ; 
Trill  to  me  tenderly,  mournfully  ;  —  O  ! 

More  sweet  than  the  lark's  loud  laughter 
Is  thy  plaintive  voice  in  the  evening's  glow, 

That  follows  the  fierce  hours  after ! 


Sing  to  me,  trill  to  me  ;  —  ah,  my  heart 

Lonely  lies  and  forsaken, 
Drooping  in  sorrowful  silence  apart, 

By  tremulous  grief  o'ertaken, 
And  the  voice  is  thine  that  can  soothe  its  smart, 

Its  tenderest  hopes  awaken. 

Sing  to  me  !  —  ah,  for  a  heart  like  thine, 

Cricket  under  the  rafter ! 
Then  could  I  make  all  my  sorrows  divine 

That  follow  the  fierce  joys  after ! 
I  could  sing,  —  I  could  sing,  —  and  a  song  were 
mine 

More  sweet  than  the  wild  lark's  laughter ! 


TO  A  SUMMER  EVENING  WIND.  25 


TO    A    SUMMER    EVENING    WIND. 

SOFT  wind  of  summer's  eve, 

Fresh  from  blue  fields  and  paradisial  air, 
Methinks  in  happy  vision  I  perceive 

Thee  winged  with  floating  hair, 

A  spirit  quaintly  dight 

In  robe  of  airiest  gossamer  outspread, 
Roaming  the  earth  in  innocent  delight, 

By  wayward  fancy  led  ; 

In  sweet  unconsciousness, 

Wafting    thy   cool    delights    through    breathless 

ways, 
That  speak  again  in  music,  and  confess 

Thy  joys  with  grateful  praise ; 

Waking  with  magic  wings 

Life  and  fresh  grace  in  tree  and  vine  and  flower, 
Till  all  alive,  with  airy  whisperings 

They  fill  the  twilight  hour. 


26  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

Out  of  the  deep  land's  breast 

A  murmur  comes,  of  many  glad  sounds  made, 
Gathered  from  lake  and  plain  and  mountain  crest, 

And  meadows  bathed  in  shade  ; 

A  universal  sigh 

Of  calm  content  and  gratitude  to  thee, 
Who  feignest  not  to  listen,  being  shy, 

As  such  rare  spirits  be. 

Through  all  the  arid  day 

Hast  thou  been  sleeping  sweetly  in  the  hill, 
Unseen  by  woodland  fairies  in  their  play, 

While  all  around  was  still ; 

Save  when  some  hidden  bird, 

Full  of  sly  wildwood  mischief,  suddenly 

Broke  on  thy  dream  'mid  foliage  unstirred, 
In  mocking  melody, 

Waking  at  quiet  eve 

In  most  divine  refreshment  and  delight 
To  bathe  in  air  and  over  earth  to  weave 

Thy  far  erratic  flight. 


TO   A   SUMMER   EVENING   \VlND.  27 

Thy  light  approach  unreels 

A  band  of  dancing  dimples  o'er  the  lake, 
Such  as  on  charmed  nights  the  skimming  keels 

Of  fairies'  shallops  make. 

Thy  breath  is  in  the  vine, 

That  half  my  window's  prospect  serves  to  screen  ; 
Ah !  are  not  those  thy  lovely  eyes  that  shine 

The  woven  leaves  between  ? 


Welcome,  celestial  guest ! 

With  what  fond  message  comest  thou  to  me,  — 
What  secret  gift  of  hope  or  rapture  blest, 

Of  all  thy  fair  eyes  see  ? 

Thou  art  so  shy  a  sprite  !  — 

Here  !  breathe  it  through  the  vine  into  my  ear ! 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  deepening  night 

Thy  arch  laugh  answers  clear. 

Thou  art  not  here  nor  there, 

Thou  comest  not  at  this  or  that  one's  call, 
I  know  thee  now,  that  thou  art  everywhere, 

Thy  blessings  free  to  all ! 


28  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Ah !  what  a  bliss  to  feel 

Thy  cool  breath  o'er  hot  cheek  and  forehead  play, 
Delicious  to  the  sense  as  airs  that  steal 

From  flowery  woods  of  May. 

How  pleasant  to  the  ear 

Thy  songs  are,  that  their  ceaseless  music  keep, 
Soft  —  soft,  like  voices  sleepy  children  hear 

Call  from  the  shores  of  sleep. 


FADING   DAYS. 


29 


FADING    DAYS. 

FILLED  with  a  quiet  sadness  nigh  to  tears, 

When  tears  come  fresh  from  no  ungentle  spring, 

Beside  this  stream,  whose  tongue  runs  faltering, 

I  watch  this  graceful  fading  of  the  year's. 

A  breeze  shakes  all  the  host  of  grassy  spears, 

Rustling  their  faded  pennants  where  they  cling, 

A  brown  rust  widens  round  the  fairies'  ring, 

Pale  on  each  bough  a  dying  grace  appears. 

The  air  is  tremulous  with  hovering  fears, 

Each  moment  some  loved  charm  is  taking  wing ; 

For  every  pearl  that  falls  from  summer's  string 

Dies  in  my  breast  some  song  her  love  endears. 

O  autumn,  haste !  blow  fresh  through  heart  and  brain 

The  riper  notes  of  thy  reviving  strain  ! 


30  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


GLEN    LAKE    AT    TWILIGHT. 

How  still  she  lies  ! 

A  bride  in  all  her  wedding  splendor  dressed, 
After  the  day's  sweet  tumult  and  surprise 
Laid  in  soft  rest. 


Ere  yet  the  hour 

Has  come  that  brings  the  bridegroom  to  her  arms, 
In  that  mysterious  pause  'twixt  bud  and  flower 
Of  royal  charms. 

With  dearest  eyes 

Closed  over  dreams  of  glorious  substance  wrought, 
Placid  as  peace,  in  all  content  she  lies, 
And  still  as  thought. 

The  tender  flush 

Of  twilight  lingering  warm  on  brow  and  cheek, 
Upturned  in  perfect  slumber  'mid  the  hush, 
Serene  and  meek. 


GL,EN   LAKE  AT  TWILIGHT.  31 

Scarcely  a  gem 

Is  shaken  'midst  the  clusters  on  her  breast, 
Nor  trembles  there  the  red  rose  on  its  stem, 
So  deep  her  rest. 

No  faintest  stir 
Of  zephyrs  playing  unseen  round  her  bed, 

Disturbs  the  folds  of  the  bright  robe  round  her 
In  wealth  outspread. 

'Twixt  low  hills  peaked 

Hangs  the  bepainted  couch  on  which  she  lies, 
Pillowed  with  mist  and  curtained  by  the  streaked, 
Delightful  skies. 

All  life  around 
Gives  worship  in  a  silence  delicate, 

Soothed  by  the  vision  and  the  charm  profound 
Of  peace  so  great. 

In  white  undress, 

The  moon,  with  two  shy  children  at  her  side, 
Looks  down  on  her  in  matron  tenderness, 
Regret,  and  pride. 


32  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

Tranquil  and  fair, 

Untroubled  by  a  thought  of  all  the  earth 
She  sleeps,  secure  in  kindly  nature's  care 
As  at  her  birth. 


From  thee,  still  lake, 
Passes  the  shadow  of  a  peace  unguessed 

By  all  the  dreamless  world,  substance  to  take 
In  this  sure  breast. 


THE;  ROBB-WEAVKRS.  33 


THE    ROBE-WEAVERS. 

UPON  the  hills  they  set  their  loom, 
They  wove  in  silence  in  the  night ; 

When  morning  smiled  through  mist  and  gloom 
Earth  wore  a  robe  of  shining  white. 

It  lay  upon  her  rich  and  chaste, 
With  starry  jewels  sprinkled  o'er, 

Above  the  one  by  floods  defaced 
That  yesterday  she  sadly  wore. 

Of  stainless  snow  they  wove  it  fair, 
And  wrapped  her  in  it  close  and  deep ; 

They  sowed  it  with  frost-crystals  rare, 
And  left  her  lovely  in  her  sleep. 

And  many  and  many  a  peerless  dress 
They  've  wrought  in  loving  sympathy, 

To  keep  her  winter  barrenness 
Clothed  with  perpetual  purity. 


34  SCYTHK   AND   SWORD. 

'  For  on  the  hills,  by  night  or  day, 

By  spirit  hands  her  garments  grow, 
Fast  as  the  old  ones  wear  away, 
Because  the  spirits  love  her  so. 


WINTER.  35 


WINTER. 

O  WINTER  !  thou  art  not  that  haggard  Lear, 

With  stormy  beard  and  countenance  of  woe, 

Raving  amain,  or  dumbly  crouching  low, 

In  hoary  desolation  mocked  with  fear ! 

To  me  thou  art  the  white  queen  of  the  year, 

A  stately  virgin  in  her  robes  of  snow, 

With  royal  lilies  crowned,  and  all  aglow 

With  holy  charms,  and  gems  celestial  clear. 

Nor  dost  thou  come  in  barren  majesty, — 

Thou  hast  thy  dower  of  sunbeams,  thrice  refined, — 

Nor  songless,  but  with  cheerful  minstrelsy, 

Rung  from  the  singing  harpstrings  of  the  wind  ; 

And,    ah !    with   such   sweet   dreams,   such   visions 

bright, 
Of  flowers,  and  birds,  and  love's  divine  delight ! 


36  SCYTHE;  AND  SWORD. 


THE    VOICE    OF    WATERS. 

SINGER  !  by  the  lonely  main, 
Sitting  on  the  sea-rocks  hoary, 
Listen  to  his  ancient  story, 
Sung  in  deep-resounding  strain. 
From  amid  the  endless  flow 
Of  the  tides  that  come  and  go ; 
Through  the  passion  and  the  strife, 
Stern  and  grand  and  sad  as  life,  — 
Sounds  of  anguish  and  of  crying, 
Sin's  remorse  and  sorrow's  sighing ; 
'Mid  the  noise  and  stormy  strain 
Of  his  sea-wrath  launched  amain, 
Down  the  sun's  red  track  that  bridges 
Long  uprolling  ocean  ridges, 
When  his  passion  sinks  subdued 
Into  golden  quietude ; 
O'er  the  slumber  great  as  peace, 
Where  his  spirit  finds  release,  — 
In  and  through  and  over  all 
Hear  the  weird  sea-voices  call. 
Listen  while  their  strains  come  singing 


THE  VOICE  OF  WATERS. 

Round  thee,  thought  with  music  bringing, 

Till  the  soul  is  born  once  more 

Which  the  poets  knew  of  yore, 

'Midst  the  glorious  pangs  that  earth 

Feels  at  a  diviner  birth,  — 

Child  whose  restless  cries  shall  be 

Harpings  of  sublimity ; 

Whose  imperial  heart,  imbrued 

In  the  fires  of  solitude, 

Wraps  the  scornful  core  intense 

Of  a  fierce  magnificence, 

Worrying  the  parent  breast 

With  his  tumults  of  unrest. 

He  shall  feed  thy  searching  soul 

With  the  long-delaying  fire, 

He  shall  wing  thee  for  the  goal 

Of  thy  uttermost  desire : 

Tis  the  spirit  of  the  sea 

Gives  the  wings  to  Poesy. 


38  SCYTHE  AND   SWORD. 


THE    UNTIMELY    SINGER. 

A  BIRD  with  azure  breast  and  beak  of  gold, 

A  joyous  stranger,  beautiful  and  shy, 

Flown  from  far  groves  beneath  a  summer  sky, 

At  morn  amid  our  March  woods  bare  and  cold 

Sang  like  a  spirit.     Raptures  such  as  hold 

The  arches  charmed,  and  hush  the  zephyr's  sigh, 

From  his  enamored  throat  flowed  carelessly 

In  musical  low  warblings  manifold. 

At  length  he  ceased,  with  arch  head  bent  aside, 

And  listened  long  !  but  from  the  woodlands  bare 

No  cheering  voice  of  melody  replied,  — 

Only  a  faint  call  from  the  fields  of  air ; 

Swiftly  he  rose,  and  as  the  echo  died 

Fled  to  the  open  heavens,  and  warbled  there. 


SONG'S  DIVINITY.  39 


SONG'S    DIVINITY. 

ALL  my  singing  seems  divine 

When  the  spirit,  like  a  feather, 

Floats  'mid  sunny  summer  weather, 

Buoyantly  through  shade  and  shine ; 

When  my  treasure-house  of  trees 

Murmurs  with  the  bartering  bees  ; 

And  from  meadows  purpled  over 

With  the  royal  flush  of  clover 

Waves  of  sumptuous  perfume  rise, 

Rolled  in  warmth  of  paradise, 

Where  the  lark  rides  blithe  and  strong 

Bubbling  o'er  with  liquid  song. 

When  in  mossy  spaces  cool 

Ripples  quicken  on  the  pool, 

And  the  streams  race  in  the  sun, 

Tossing  diamonds  as  they  run. 

If  with  these  and  skies  serene 

Glimpsed  through  woven  boughs  of  green, 

On  whose  walls  in  azure  laid 

Airy  figures  form  and  fade  ; 

And  the  wind  in  playful  sallies 


4O  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Whispering  through  the  curtained  alleys, 
Wafting  down  the  shaded  walk 
Voice  of  friends  in  pleasant  talk,  — 
Then  are  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 
Then  the  world  is  ruled  aright, 
And  with  heaven  everywhere 
Song  is  motion,  air,  and  light, 
Melody  is  poured  like  wine, 
And  my  songs  are  all  divine. 


THE;  VOYAGERS.  41 


THE    VOYAGERS. 

'T  is  moonlight  on  the  sea, 
Calmly  the  tides  are  sleeping ; 

In  heaven  far  and  free 

The  stars  their  watch  are  keeping. 


Softly  our  fairy  boat 

Moves  on  with  restful  motion, 
Like  a  snowy  swan  afloat, 

O'er  the  breast  of  the  musing  ocean. 

Airs  from  a  far-off  sphere 
In  the  sky's  wide  quiet  lying, 

Waft  us  a  chant  of  fear, 
In  ethereal  whispers  dying. 

The  starry  wrecks  that  float 

Down  heaven's  wild  tide  of  glory, 

O'er  which  ill  angels  gloat, 

Are  the  theme  of  their  sad  sea  story. 


42  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

The  tender  tones  and  sad 
Of  the  spirit  winds  remind  us 

Of  the  hours  so  calmly  glad 

With  the  hearts  we  leave  behind  us. 

Hint  they  in  sighing  song 

Of  the  dangers  that  enfold  us, 

And  the  weary  days  and  long 
Ere  the  hills  again  behold  us. 

In  vain  the  stars  and  wind 

With  their  voices  that  implore  us ; 

The  hills  lie  dim  behind, 
And  the  ocean  is  before  us. 

The  passionate  dark  isles 

Wooed  us  with  promise  golden, 

But  well  we  knew  their  wiles 
From  tale  and  poem  olden. 

The  glimmering  sails  went  past, 

And  the  sailors  sang  us  warning,  — 

"O  whither  away  so  fast ! 

Come  home  to  the  port  of  morning ! ' 


THE  VOYAGERS.  43 

Fleet  sails  that  homeward  fly 

Storm-winds  and  waves  shall  sever ; 

The  isles  shall  sink  and  die, 
But  the  sea  rolls  on  forever ! 


Past  are  the  storms  that  plague, 
And  rocks  that  threat  us  grimly ; 

No  more  the  wan  fogs  vague 
Oppress  our  vision  dimly. 

No  more  the  siren's  breath 
Shames  the  pure  silence  holy, 

Fades  her  rank  bower  of  death 
On  wide  horizon  lowly. 

The  fleeting  sails  are  flown, 
Like  ocean  shadows  shifting, 

And  beneath  the  moon,  alone, 
Our  fairy  boat  is  drifting. 

Over  the  mute  sea's  wave, 
Over  the  sleeping  billow, 

No  dreamy  couch  we  crave, 
Long  for  no  downy  pillow. 


44  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Our  hearts  are  on  the  deep, 

Our  thoughts  are  with  the  ocean, 

Our  souls  the  wonder  keep 
Of  his  silent,  great  emotion. 

Softly  the  dying  breeze 

Sinks  on  faint  pinion  failing ; 

Far  o'er  receding  seas 

The  reef's  red  flame  is  paling. 

Faint, — faint  the  hills  appear, 
That  again  shall  know  us  never,  - 

A  long  fond  look,  a  tear, 
And  they  are  gone  forever. 

O  rest !  our  voyage  is  o'er 

In  the  seas  of  danger  haunted, 

And  we  '11  sail  forevermore 
The  sea  of  the  enchanted. 


PRESAGE.  45 


PRESAGE. 

LIGHTLY,  lightly  glides  our  bark 

Over  the  moonlit  sea ! 
Brightly,  brightly  burns  the  spark 

Of  the  lighthouse  on  our  lee ; 
But  away  on  the  dim  horizon's  rim 

Faint  lights  flash  fitfully. 

Brightly,  brightly  out  of  the  blue 

The  eloquent  planets  shine  ; 
Lightly,  lightly  as  ever  it  flew, 

The  wind's  wing  fans  the  brine  ; 
But  low  in  the  south,  at  the  harbor's  mouth, 

The  kennelled  storm-dogs  whine. 

9 

Slowly,  slowly  fades  the  shore, 
Pale  in  the  moonlight  sleeping, 

Lowly,  lowly  out  before 

The  jewelled  sea  is  sweeping ; 

But  far  away  in  the  outer  bay 

The  white  foam-steeds  are  leaping. 


46  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Gently,  gently  rocks  our  boat 

Under  the  broad  sails  flowing, 
Softly,  softly  round  us  float 

Voices  of  the  night-wind  blowing  ; 
While  the  waves  laugh  low  as  they  touch  us  and  go, 

"  Good  night !  "  on  their  journey  going. 

Sweetly,  sweetly  floats  a  song 

Into  the  blue  above  ; 
Sweetly,  sweetly,  low  and  long, 

Singeth  my  lute-voiced  love,  — 
My  lily  girl  with  her  flesh  of  pearl, 

And  her  eyes  like  a  brooding  dove. 

Sitting,  sitting  softly  there 

Wrapped  in  her  purity, 
Sitting,  sitting  divinely  fair 

In  the  trance  of  melody, 
With  the  eager  grace  on  her  upturned  face 

Of  enchanted  minstrelsy. 

Fairer,  fairer  than  the  light 

Blossoms  my  lily  pale  ; 
Rarer,  rarer  than  the  night, 


PRESAGE.  47 


With  its  fainting  visions  frail ; 
But  a  spirit  sits  where  the  shadow  flits 
In  the  corner  of  the  sail. 

Hiding,  hiding  closely  here 
Out  of  the  moon's  broad  eye  ; 

Biding,  biding  close  to  my  ear 
With  a  cunning  art  and  sly, 

Like  a  friend  of  ill  my  heart  to  chill 
With  his  truth  that  is  a  lie. 

"  Lovely,  lovely  in  thy  sight, 

Is  the  lily  of  thy  desire ; 
Lovely,  lovely  as  the  night, 

But  the  night  has  a  soul  of  fire ; 
And  the  lily  may  fold  in  her  petals  cold 

The  flame  of  a  passionate  ire." 


Swiftly,  swiftly  flies  our  sail 
'     Over  the  seething  sea  ; 
Wildly,  wildly  screams  the  gale, 

And  the  clouds  flame  wrathfully ; 
But  high  through  the  dark  burns  the  steady  spark 

Of  the  lighthouse  on  our  lee. 


48  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


INLAND. 

ON  the  bare  cliffs  in  lonely  revery 

I  wait,  and  hear  far  off  the  smothered  shocks 
Of  billows  plunging  on  the  stubborn  rocks 

That  pillar  the  ancient  gateway  to  the  sea ; 

And  there  comes  o'er  me,  swift,  resistless,  free, 
Again  that  old  fierce  soul  of  storm  and  flood, 
With  fire  and  joy  exultant  in  the  blood, 

Erewhile  through  stormy  years  my  destiny ! 

That  strong  voice  of  the  sea,  prophetic,  great, 
How  shall  the  weak  of  soul  resist  its  call, 

Having  once  loved  it  ?     'T  is  the  voice  of  fate, 
Swifter  than  tongue  of  siren  to  enthrall, 

Such  sway  hath  mighty  nature  o'er  us  still, 

Such  power,  despise,  deny  her,  as  we  will ! 


STARI4GHT  SONG.  49 


STARLIGHT    SONG. 

OVER  the  moonlit  sea, 

Wafted  from  afar, 
Floats  sweet  melody, 

Like  a  chant  from  a  distant  star, 
Trembling  upon  the  ear, 
In  cadence  low  and  clear. 

Over  the  haunted  streams, 

Out  of  the  isles  of  dusk, 
Follow  a  breath  and  a  sigh, 

Laden  with  rose  and  musk, 
Like  those  which  amid  the  years 
Here  bathed  me  in  dreams  and  tears. 

O  voice  long  fled  and  far, 

That  sang  'mid  the  haunted  night ! 
Thou  wert  fleeter  than  spirits  are 

That  flee  at  the  dawning  light ! 
My  beautiful  mystical  bride, 
Who  vanished  ere  starlight  died, 

To  chant  'mid  the  gleams  of  thy  native  streams, 

Where  the  heavenly  isles  abide  ! 


50  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


THE    COMING    PREACHER. 

HALF  of  the  world,  half  of  the  schools, 
A  man  combined  of  brain  and  brawn. 

A  workman  wielding  nature's  tools 
With  vigor  buoyant  as  the  dawn. 

A  hearty  nature,  uncontrolled 
By  vices  of  restraint  or  pride, 

Whose  charities,  like  honest  gold, 
Ring  standard  in  the  market's  tide. 

One  versed  in  philosophic  lore, 

And  wisdom  of  the  sects  and  creeds, 

Yet  holding  them  as  but  the  door 
To  human  nature's  sacred  needs ; 

With  sympathies  whose  generous  plan 
No  stinted  meed  of  mercy  brooks  ; 

Who  reckons  learning  less  than  man, 
And  human  life  as  more  than  books. 


THE  COMING   PREACHER.  51 

Yet  in  whose  free,  far-circling  thought, 
The  graces  that  enrich  and  bless,  —     . 

All  art,  all  science  known  and  taught, 
Are  parts  of  reigning  righteousness. 

To  whom  the  fire  and  scourge  of  song, 

The  spell  that  breathes  from  music's  scroll, 

The  gleam  that  gilds  the  sculptor's  throng, 
Are  elements  of  endless  soul. 


A  heart,  —  lo  !  like  a  mother's,  —  soft, 
With  deeps  of  unknown  tenderness, 

A  spring  of  sacred  joy,  and  oft 
Of  sacred  pity  and  distress ! 

Serene  in  spirit,  unassailed 

By  doubts  that  rnar  the  soul's  content, 
In  faith  a  giant,  iron-mailed, 

Unshaken  though  the  heavens  be  rent. 

And  his  shall  be  the  gaze  to  scan, 
Unquelled  by  surface  waste  of  sin, 

The  deep  mine  of  the  heart  of  man, 
To  find  the  gold  that 's  hid  therein. 


52  SCYTHE   AND  SWORD. 

And  having  found  it,  his  the  hand 
To  loose  it  from  the  rock  and  clod,  — 

Mould  it,  and  stamp  it  with  the  brand 
And  image  of  the  Son  of  God. 

And  he  shall  come,  and  he  shall  be 
The  help  and  healing  of  the  time,  — 

The  noble  friend  we  look  to  see, 

The  guide  to  heights  we  hope  to  climb ! 


GOD'S  COUNTRY.  53 


GOD'S    COUNTRY. 

I. 

DOST  thou  not  know  God's  country,  where  it  lies  ? 

That  land  long  dreamed  of,  more   desired  than 
gold, 

Which  noble  souls,  by  dauntless  hope  made  bold, 
Have  searched  the  future  for  with  longing  eyes ! 
Hast  thou  not  seen  in  heaven  its  hills  arise  ? 

Hast  thou  not  viewed  its  glories  manifold, 

'Midst  sky-wide  scenery  splendidly  unrolled, 
Ripe  for  hearts'  trust  and  godlike  enterprise  ? 
Yes,  thou  hast  known  it  in  familiar  guise, 

Its  soil  thy  feet  are  keeping  with  fast  hold ; 
And  thou  dost  love  its  songs,  its  flowers  dost  prize ; 

Thy  corn-land  and  thy  wine-land  is  its  mould  : 
T  is  here,  —  't  is  here  God's  land  lies,  the  divine, 
America,  thy  heart's  true  home  and  mine ! 

II. 

All  lands  are  God's  lands ;  yet  is  this  indeed 

The  home  express  of  His  divinity; 

His  visible  hand  redeemed  it  from  the  sea, 
And  sowed  its  fields  with  freedom's  deathless  seed. 


54  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

He  succored  it  most  swiftly  in  its  need ; 

In  field  and  council  men  with  awe  did  see 

His  arm  made  manifest  almightily, 
Scarce  veiled  in  instruments  of  mortal  breed. 
He  laid  a  way  here  for  the  feet  that  bleed, 

A  space  for  souls  ayearn  for  liberty 
To  grow  immortal  in,  —  no  more  to  plead 

With  nature  for  their  portion  which  should  be. 
T  is  here,  O  friend  !  the  land  lies  that  shall  grow 
The  vine  of  sacred  brotherhood  below. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  WAR-EAGLE.         55 


THE    FLIGHT    OF    THE    WAR-EAGLE. 

JULY  23,  1885. 

THE  eagle  of  the  armies  of  the  West, 

Dying  upon  his  alp,  near  to  the  sky, 

Through  the  slow  days  that  paled  the  imperial  eye, 

But  could  not  tame  the  proud  fire  of  his  breast,  — 

Gone  with  the  mighty  pathos  !     Only  rest 

Remains  where  passed  that  struggle  stern  and  high; 

Rest,  silence,  broken  sometimes  by  the  cry 

Of  mother  and  eaglets  round  the  ravaged  nest. 

'T  was  when  the  death-cloud  touched  the  mountain 

crest, 

A  singer  among  the  awed  flocks  cowering  nigh, 
Looked  up  and  saw  against  the  sunrise  sky 
An  eagle,  in  ethereal  plumage  dressed, 
Break  from  the  veil,  and  flame  his  buoyant  flight 
Far  toward  the  hills  of  heaven  unveiled  and  bright. 


56  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


THE    PARTING    OF    EMERSON. 

Too  fairy-light  of  keel,  and  swift  of  sail 

To  bide  the  winds  and  currents  of  the  world, 

At  last  good-by  to  fickle  wave  and  gale  ! 

Thy  bark  steers  free,  with  all  her  wings  unfurled, 

Into  the  happy  deeps,  through  foam-wreaths  curled  ! 

Thought,  like  a  seraph,  radiant  at  the  peak, 

Leans   seaward   through   the   shower   of    diamond 

spray 

Tossed  in  light  scorn  from  off  the  shallop's  beak, 
And  at  the  helm  Instinct,  the  pilot  gray, 
Guiding  to  golden  islands  of  the  day. 

Speed  on,  bright  sail,  into  the  happy  seas, 
While  vainly  on  the  utmost  line  of  strand 
We  wait  to  catch  some  faint  breath  of  the  breeze 
That  blows  on  thee  from  the  enchanted  land ! 

No  more  on  bay  or  river-flood  of  ours 
Shall  thy  evasive  presence  shift  and  shine, 
Haunting  our  air  with  perfume  of  strange  flowers, 
And  hinting  of  a  grace  and  force  divine, 
Born  of  the  breeze  and  odor  of  the  brine ! 


GORDON.  57 


GORDON. 

'T  is  not  so  sad  to  know  that  thus  he  died, 

Small  power  hath  Death  to  trouble  such  as  he, 

Whom,  overcome  by  darkest  treachery, 

No  meaner  pang  than  pity  could  betide, 

But  that  so  rich  a  spirit  —  such  a  pride 

Of  passion,  splendor,  immortality, 

Such  fire  —  be  quenched  and  lost  so  utterly, 

How  sinks  our  heart  of  hope  betrayed,  belied ! 

Alas,  and  this  is  so !    Not  all  that  zeal, 

And  power,  and  holy  ardor  could  avail 

To  turn  aside  one  mean  assassin's  steel ! 

What  if  within  yon  silent  city's  pale 

All  these  imperial  passions  that  we  feel 

Be  found  at  last  but  splendid  dreams  that  fail  ? 


58  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


EMERSON -CARLYLE. 

ONE  stood  upon  the  morning  hills  and  saw 
The  heavens  revealed  in  symbol  and  in  sign ; 
He  read  their  mystic  meanings,  line  by  line, 
And  taught  in  light  the  reign  of  rhythmic  law. 
One  in  the  twilight  valleys,  pierced  with  awe, 
Beheld  wan  Hope  amid  great  darkness  shine,  — 
Saw  gloom  and  glory  blent  without  design, 
And  cried  against  a  world  of  blot  and  flaw. 
Sunrise  and  sunset  poise  the  perfect  day ; 
One  was  the  prince  of  morning  fair  and  free, 
And  one  the  lord  of  darkness  was,  and  they 
Made  day  and  night  one  round  of  harmony, 
For  they  were  kings  and  brothers,  and  their  sway 
One  law,  —  one  new  divine  philosophy. 


CHARLES   DARWIN.  59 


CHARLES    DARWIN. 

WHAT  mind  was  this,  that  godlike  and  alone, 
Abode  a  season  with  us  and  is  gone  ? 

What  eye  was  this,  so  keen,  now  dull  as  stone, 
That  lit  our  world  with  prophesies  of  dawn  ? 

Strange  souls  are  sent  us  in  this  latter  age, 
All  brain  and  eye,  enkindled  not  amiss, 

Yet  strong  and  bright  and  beautifully  sage, 
But  none  more  strong  and  beautiful  than  this. 

They  come  and  go  among  us  scarcely  seen, 

Wrapped  in  the  mystic  mantle  of  their  thought ; 

We  know  them  only  after  they  have  been, 

Then    only    know   them    by    the    work    they've 
wrought. 

. 
Clear  souls  from  nature's  secret  realms  estranged 

To  teach  awhile  on  earth  what  nature  is, 
The  heavens  which  gave  them  take  them,  —  they 

are  changed, 

Their  lives  are  changed,  and  none  more  changed 
than  his  — 


6O  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Darwin's,  who  traced  our  nature  to  its  germ 
Through  all  the  dark  entanglements  of  time  ; 

Who  heard,  from  highest  man  to  lowest  worm, 
Life's  long  pulse  beat  in  period  and  rhyme. 

He  bowed,  and  wrought,  and  listened  hard,  then 
rose,  — 

Stood  up  and  calmly  spoke  the  truth  he  knew, 
And  standing  thus  in  eminent  repose 

Was  changed,  and  passed  serenely  out  of  view. 

Of  all  the  simple  and  sublime  of  soul 

That  Heaven  has  sent  in  wisdom's  ministry, 

To  lead   Thought's  footsteps  onward   toward   her 

goal, 
Was  one  more  simple  and  sublime  than  he  ? 


PRESBYTERY. 


61 


PRESBYTERY. 

ALONG  the  hushed  aisles,  little  frequented, 
Except  by  feet  on  sacred  service  bent 
At  Sabbath's  hour  of  praise  or  sacrament, 

The  gathering  pastors  move  with  quiet  tread. 

Such  men !  see  what  a  lion  in  that  head  ! 
What  passion  in  those  eyes  magnificent ! 
What  pride  in  that  imperial  brow  unbent ! 

This  face,  what  grace  and  subtle  charm  inbred ; 

What  power  divine,  with  what  transforming  rod, 
Has  tamed  these  fiery  spirits  into  peace, 

And  made  them  reapers  in  the  fields  of  God, 

With  naught  of  strength's  decay  or  fire's  decrease  ? 

Love,  heavenly  master  of  all  arts  to  bless, 

And  Love,  that  turns  all  hearts  to  tenderness ! 


62  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


SONG-SEEDS. 

GATHER  in  the  seeds  of  song, 
Poet,  while  the  year  is  mellow, 
And  the  fields  of  God  lie  yellow, 
In  the  sunshine  warm  and  strong ! 
Gather  in  the  goodly  grain, 
To  the  storehouse  of  the  brain ; 
Fill  the  heart's  deep  granary 
With  rich  increase,  royally, 
Brim  their  ample  spaces  o'er 
With  the  season's  choicest  store ; 
Let  the  treasure-laden  plains 
Echo  with  the  reapers'  strains ; 
Fill  the  pleasant  harvest  ways 
With  the  sickle's  fiery  blaze, 
Get  the  pearl-seed  of  the  dew 
Where  't  is  nightly  laid  anew ; 
Win  the  pliant  grace  that  plays 
In  the  flag-leaves  of  the  maize ; 
Catch  the  syllables  that  pass, 
Whispering  'twixt  the  trees  and  grass ; 
In  the  garden  watch  an  hour 
For  the  soul  of  shrub  and  flower ; 


SONG-SEEDS.  63 

Ask  the  west-wind  coursing  fleet 
For  the  charm  of  music  sweet ; 
Woo  the  plaintive  notes  that  fall 
Through  each  dying  interval. 
Glean  while  genial  light  is  here, 
Winter  cometh  on  apace, 
When  there 's  need  of  singing  cheer, 
Winter's  storm  and  gloom  to  chase, 
Spirits  blithe  shall  with  thee  go, 
Where  the  richest  harvests  grow. 


64  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


CONFESSION. 

THOU  art  the  friend  and  comrade,  Poesy, 
For  whom  I  suffer  all  things,  still  content, 
If  not  in  vain  for  thee  my  light  is  spent, 

The  share  of  heavenly  light  that  fell  on  me. 

Thou  art  my  meat,  my  drink,  my  liberty, 
Thou  art  my  garb,  thou  art  my  tenement, 
Wherein  I  hide  all  night  from  floods  unpent, 

From  lightnings,  winds,  and  scourgings  of  the  sea ! 

O  thou  art  strong  and  lovely  as  the  light, 

Yea,  as  the  light  of  morning  strong  and  sweet ! 

Thou  art  the  lover  perfect  in  my  sight, 
Attending  all  my  steps  with  eager  feet, 

The  form,  —  the  image  in  my  dreams  at  night, 
The  morning  glory  that  I  rise  to  greet ! 


THE;  POET'S  HERITAGE.  65 


THE    POET'S    HERITAGE. 

ALL  riches,  honor,  fame's  divine  estate, 

Are  due  the  gentle  poet  and  his  song. 

The  earth  is  first  for  him  ;  to  him  belong 
Life's  every  part  and  glorious  aggregate. 
To  him  the  sweet  birds  carol  soon  and  late, 

To  him  the  streams  run,  and  the  fairy  throng 

Of  flowers  live  for  his  praises,  and  the  strong 
Sun  and  the  sea  roll  tribute  to  his  gate ! 
Men's  trust  is  his,  and  childhood's  innocent  kiss, 

And  love,  and  praise  of  women's  gentle  eyes ; 
He  passes  greeting  over  the  abyss 

With  the  heroic  spirits  of  the  wise,  — 
"  How  fares  it  with  thee  in  the  wilderness  ? " 

"  Bravely !  and  how  art  thou  in  Paradise  ? " 


66  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


THOUGHT    AND    PASSION. 

WHAT  feeble  and  unhappy  bards  are  we, 

Who  trace  our  lines  with  over-cunning  hand 

Upon  a  narrow  strip  of  seashore  sand, 
Washed  over  night  by  strong  floods  of  the  sea ! 
We  look  at  length  and  wonder  where  they  be  : 

They  vanish,  and  we  do  not  understand ; 

Not  though  we  muse  the  verse  divinely  grand 
Of  him  whose  natural  breath  was  poetry,  — 
Shakespeare  the  happy.     He  with  fearless  art 

Sang  all  his  deep  heart  forth,  his  lovely  name 
Is  graved  forever  on  the  human  heart. 

Our  day  is  gracious,  but  our  love  is  tame ; 
We  shrink  from  passion's  face,  and  strive  apart 

To  kindle  with  cool  thought  the  Muse's  flame. 


A  SONG  ON  THE  SHORE).  67 


A    SONG    ON    THE    SHORE. 

WELCOME,  strong  soul  of  Poesy,  once  more  ! 

0  where  so  long  hast  thou  been  wandering  ? 
Thou  comest  to  me  like  the  gales  of  spring 

That  tell  me  winter's  blasts  are  blown  and  o'er. 
Since  thou  took'st  sail  and  left  me  on  the  shore, 
Far  vanishing  as  on  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

1  've  heard  but  steely  tempests  round  me  ring, 
Crushed  down  'neath  ocean's  mighty  overpour ! 
W\ere  wert  thou  ?    They  did  scourge  me  till  my  cry 

Outrang  the  tempest !  yea,  my  soul  was  tried 
Till  angels  saw  and  pitied  me  on  high ! 

They  flew  like  doves  and  brought  thee  with  the 

tide. 
And  now  that  thou  art  come  joy  hovereth  nigh, 

Dimpling  the  deep  with  laughter  far  and  wide ! 


68  SCYTHE   AND  SWORD. 


WHIPPOORWILL. 

LISTEN,  how  the  whippoorwill, 
From  his  song-bed  veiled  and  dusky, 
Fills  the  night  ways  warm  and  musky 
With  his  music's  throb  and  thrill ! 
'T  is  the  western  nightingale 
Lodged  within  the  orchard's  pale, 
Starting  into  sudden  tune 
'Mid  the  amorous  air  of  June. 
Lord  of  all  the  songs  of  night, 
Bird  unseen  of  voice  outright, 
Buried  in  the  sumptuous  gloom 
Of  his  shadow-panelled  room, 
Roofed  above  by  webbed  and  woven 
Leaf  and  bloom  by  moonbeams  cloven, 
Searched  by  odorous  zephyrs  through, 
Dim  with  dusk  and  damp  with  dew,  — 
He  it  is  that  makes  the  night 
An  enchantment  and  delight, 
Opening  his  entrancing  tale 
Where  the  evening  robins  fail, 


WHIPPOORWILJv.  69 

Ending  the  victorious  strain 

When  the  robins  wake  again. 

Sacred  bird,  whom  lovers  bless 

Strayed  in  love's  charmed  wilderness, 

Couched  in  paradisial  shade 

By  ambrosial  branches  made, 

Or  with  passion-guided  feet 

Trailing  paths  through  grass-beds  sweet, 

Over  tufted  sod  and  tangled 

With  moon-lilies  pale  bespangled  ; 

Choice  musician  !  loyal  aid 

To  enamored  youth  and  maid, 

Parting  with  rich  interlude 

Mute-companioned  solitude ; 

Dear  interpreter  to  each 

Of  the  thoughts  too  fond  for  speech, 

Voicing  with  consummate  art, 

Secret  thrill  of  heart  to  heart ; 

Subtle  searcher,  yet  most  free 

Of  insidious  mockery, 

Haunting  every  breath  that  strays 

Through  their  love-bewildered  ways, 

Making  all  their  dream  and  spell 

One  melodious  miracle. 


7O  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

Spirit !  from  thy  phantom  bed, 

Under  the  enchanted  tree, 

Say,  what  wooings  hast  thou  sped 

With  thy  songful  sympathy  ? 

What  sweet  hearts  hast  taught  to  thrill, 

Whippoorwill,  —  ah,  whippoorwill ! 


71 


HELLAS. 

'T  is  not  where  sculpture  rules  a  world  grown  dim 
Fair  Hellas  lies,  so  dear  to  poet's  heart, — 
Not  in  the  galleries  of  sacred  art, 

Where  group  the  old  gods  maimed  in  trunk  and 
limb. 

Nor  is  it  where  enchanted  islands  swim 
The  warm  ^Egean  waves,  and  where  apart 
Through  rosy  mists  Olympian  heights  upstart, 

And  float  like  dreams  on  the  horizon's  rim. 

Ah,  where  is  Hellas  then  ?    'T  is  where  fresh  eyes 
Look  forth  with  love  on  nature's  face  again ; 

There  dreams  spring  up  and  fairy  visions  rise, 
And  hallowed  fanes  appear  by  cliff  and  glen. 

In  the  wnrm  breast  of  Nature,  Hellas  lies, — 
Great  mother  of  all  gods  and  godlike  men. 


72  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 


A    TROPICAL    SHOWER. 

A  PULSELESS  languor  lay  upon  the  sea, 

The  solemn  mountains  rested  in  their  calm, 
The  mighty  forests  slumbered,  and  the  palm 

Above  the  warm  sands  brooded  breathlessly ; 

The  heavens  bent  down  in  dark  expectancy, 

Then  suddenly  the  clouds  burst  'midst  the  strain, 
Drenching  the  woods  with  torrents  of  warm  rain, 

Till  in  their  deeps  they  roared  tumultuously ! 

It  ceased ;  —  the  sun  broke  forth  with  fire,  and  then, 
O  how  the  birds  sang !    Such  a  joyous  choir 

Woke  in  the  heart  of  hidden  glade  and  glen 
As  when  a  god  immortal  strikes  his  lyre 

In  deep  Parnassian  groves  afar  from  men, 
'Mid  smoke  and  incense  from  his  altar  fire. 


SUMMER  GODS.  73 


SUMMER    GODS. 

WE  were  gods  then,  you  and  I, 
On  that  June  day  long  flown  over, 
When  we  lay  amid  the  clover 
As  the  gods  were  wont  to  lie. 
The  o'erbrimming  sun  did  pour 
Summer  all  our  Eden  o'er, 
Richly  from  the  fair  blue  sky 
Sailing  o'er  us  gloriously ; 
Stony  mountains,  skyward  piled, 
Took  the  sunny  flood  and  smiled ; 
And  the  idle  bay  below 
Warmed  her  bosom  in  the  glow ; 
And  a  glamour  of  rich  gold 
Charmed  the  cedar  arches  old. 
Heart  of  thine  and  heart  of  mine  ! 
How  we  took  it  in  like  wine  ! 
With  our  eager  lips  held  up 
Innocent  to  meet  the  cup, 
Till  the  blood  sang  in  the  vein, 
And  the  pulse  played  in  the  brain, 
And  the  spirit  sensitive 
In  her  thousand  springs  did  live ! 


74  SCYTHE   AND   SWORD. 

How  the  golden  overflow, 
Turned  away  by  laughing  teeth, 
Trickled  to  the  chin  below, 
Staining  all  the  beard  beneath. 
Ah,  the  glow  in  cheek  and  eye ! 
We  were  gods  then,  you  and  I. 

Locks  of  jet,  and  locks  of  gold, 

'Neath  the  rustic  straw's  rim  straying,  — 

Winnowed  plume  and  ringlet  playing 

Over  foreheads  bright  and  bold ; 

Eyes  that  roved  the  compass  round 

Of  our  royal  pleasure-ground, 

Like  the  bumblebees  that  reeled 

In  their  drunken  flight  afield, 

Lighting  at  a  feast,  to  stay 

But  a  moment,  then  away ; 

Limbs  of  Goth  and  limbs  of  Greek, 

Turned  with  muscles  round  and  sleek, 

In  a  lawless  grace  dispread 

O'er  the  warm  crushed  clover-bed ; 

Limbs  that  match  their  pliant  might 

With  the  mountain's  stubborn  height, 

Conquering  the  cloven  crest 

Where  the  eagle  hangs  his  nest ; 


SUMMER   GODS.  75 

Limbs  that  with  elastic  force 

Lead  the  harvest's  rhythmic  course, 

In  a  habitude  that  cleaves 

To  the  sweet  way  of  the  sheaves : 

'T  was  the  blithe  arcadian  air, 

In  a  plot  with  sun  and  breeze, 

For  a  stolen  season  there 

Throned  us  in  Elysian  ease. 

Idle  immortality ! 

We  were  gods  then,  you  and  I. 

Oh  the  woodland  mirth  we  made  ! 
How  the  thunder  of  our  laughter 
Shook  the  scented  cedar  rafter 
Of  our  columned  long  arcade  ! 
Song-enchanted,  reared  behind, 
With  its  echo  leaf-enshrined ; 
How  we  shouted  !  how  we  sang ! 
How  the  shafts  of  wood-wit  rang ! 
Till  the  cattle  where  they  fed 
Gazed  with  lofty-lifted  head, 
In  a  mild-eyed  wonderment, 
Mingled  with  their  calm  content, 
Then  with  slow  step  circled  nigh, 
Pointed  horn  and  gamesome  eye, 


76  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

And  with  antic  fling  and  bound, 
Hoofed  it  o'er  the  fragrant  ground ; 
And  the  bee  forgot  the  flower, 
And  the  squirrel  left  his  bower, 
And  the  winged  folks  in  pairs 
Dropped  around  us  unawares, 
Once  to  listen  to  the  mirth 
Of  the  glad  lords  of  the  earth, 
Wafts  of  precious  cedar  scent, 
Balsam  odor,  breath  of  bee, 
Smell  of  mint  and  clover  blent 
Blew  through  all  our  revelry,  — 
Arcady  —  oh,  Arcady  ! 
We  were  gods  then,  you  and  I ! 


THE;  NEW  KINGDOM.  77 


THE    NEW    KINGDOM. 

THERE  is  a  kingdom  in  a  rugged  land ; 

It  lies  between  a  mountain  and  a  sea ; 

A  torrent  roaring  down  in  headlong  glee 
Divides  it  from  a  forest's  ancient  stand, 
And  in  its  narrow  bounds  by  nature  planned 

A  happy  monarch  reigns  in  majesty ; 

Though  small  his  realm  and  few  his  subjects  be, 
Supremest  powers  obey  his  mild  command ; 
And  I,  a  pilgrim  from  a  land  forlorn, 

Find  shelter  there,  and  rest  for  weary  feet, 

Welcome  from  fiery  toil  and  desert  heat 
To  genial  feasts  of  royal  wine  and  corn, 

The  king  and  I  together  sit  at  meat, 
And   drink  deep  draughts  from  friendship's  holy 
horn. 


78  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 


A    DAY    AND    A    FRIEND. 

WE  sat  upon  the  shore,  my  friend  and  I ; 

The  lake  lay  rocking  in  the  morning  shine, 

Odors  of  gum  were  round  us,  and  a  pine 
Played  music  while  the  waves  danced,  ceaselessly. 
Joy  of  wild  woods  and  waters  and  blue  sky 

Flowed  through  our  spirits  like  celestial  wine  ; 

We  talked  of  poet's  hopes  and  thoughts  divine, 
And  he  was  generous  and  I  was  shy. 
O  golden  heart  of  all  that  golden  day, 

Wise  friend !  so  kind  to  my  reluctant  thought ; 
So  gentle  with  the  grace  that  went  astray 

Through  stammering  speech  and  woodland  ways 

untaught ! 
He  read  me  by  the  things  I  dared  not  say, 

And  loved  me  for  the  trust  that  doubted  naught. 


PHAON   AND   HYLAS.  79 


PHAON    AND    HYLAS. 

IN  the  growing  months  of  spring, 

Ere  the  days  are  long  and  yellow, 

Runneth  a  young  brook  rioting 

Through  the  meadow  lowlands  mellow ; 

Fed  by  copious  dews  and  showers, 

Free  through  wayward  courses  winding, 

Rippling,  trilling,  brawling,  laughing, 

Air  and  wine  of  sunshine  quaffing ; 

Haunts  of  birds  and  beds  of  flowers 

Its  enamored  current  finding ; 

Making  cataracts  in  play, 

Revelling  in  wreaths  of  sunlit  spray 

Where  the  pebbly  shallows  pave  an  undulating  way; 

Voicing  joy  in  running  measures, 

Chasing  pleasures,  winning  treasures, 

Laughing  scorn  on  moody  leisures. 

On  it  speedeth,  shouting,  singing, 

Till  the  south-wind,  hither  winging, 

Bringeth  summer  from  the  south, 

Girt  with  flame  and  shod  with  drouth ; 

Then  it  faileth,  then  it  drieth, 

Dead  in  shallow  pools  it  lieth, 


80  SCYTHE  AND  SWORD. 

Leaving  but  the  echo  of  a  lay 

Wandering  with  the  memories  of  happy  yesterday. 

Out  of  a  rough  rock's  bosom  year  by  year 
A  mystic  spring  comes  welling  to  the  light ; 

'T  is  where  a  sheer  cliff  falls,  with  cedars  near, 
Deep  in  the  mountains  out  of  common  sight ; 

In  a  still  pool  its  gathered  waters  sleep, 

Rock-walled,  and  fringed  with  moss  and  ivies  deep. 

Fresh  from  the  inmost  mountain  wells  apart 
It  breaks  in  splendor,  singing  as  it  flows 

A  chant  for  him  who  listens  in  his  heart 

For  one  deep  song  to  guide  him  as  he  goes,  — 

One  pure,  unfathomable  thought  of  life 

And  beauty  to  make  rich  his  years  of  strife. 

I  love  the  tripping  song 

Of  the  brook  that  all  day  long 

Dances  and  laughs  in  the  sun, 

Ending  when  summer's  begun 

In  the  green  and  gold  of  the  meadow. 

But  more  I  love  that  rock-born  spring  and  pool 
Of  ceaseless,  quiet  water,  deep  and  cool, 
Within  the  mountain's  dark  and  silent  shadow. 


THE  SLAYER.  8 1 


THE    SLAYER. 

AH,  Poesy !  thou  glorious,  deadly  thing, 

Fair  to  create  and  merciless  to  slay, 

What  have  we  done  to  thee,  that  day  by  day 

Thou  wearest  us  with  fruitless  suffering  ? 

Is  it  for  thine  own  glory  thou  dost  wring 

These  souls  with  pangs  that  waste  our  hearts  away, 

This  fairest  web  of  life  to  fret  and  fray, 

Weaving  thereof  our  grave-clothes  while  we  sing  ? 

Thou  art  like  Love,  that  wastes  us  in  our  spring,  — 

Or  art  thou  Love's  own  self,  though  grown  less  gay, 

That  in  this  guise  dost  lead  us  still  astray 

And  cheat  us  with  the  glitter  of  a  wing  ? 

I  know  not ;  only  when  I  look  I  see 

Toil  paid  with  pain  and  faith  with  mockery. 


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